The Difference Between Love And Advertizing
by LardenceLover
Summary: BrianJustin. Brian POV following Justin's departure at the end of season twobeginning of season three.


There is a difference. Between love for real and love for love's sake.  
  
The real love is... sacrifices. Honesty and trust and no promises made that can't be kept. You said once I'd do anything for you, that you loved that I would. You're right, though. I would do anything for you, save what you want of me now. You see it as selfishness, as an inability to commit.  
  
You're wrong.  
  
Look, I'm not trying to say I know shit about love. I don't. I know I care about you, I know I've made it clear since... since the night you got the shit beat out of you and everyday there after. I don't know what makes couples tick, or why people want to fool themselves with monogamy so badly.  
  
But there's something you need to learn. If you're looking for smoke and camera tricks and a bunch of promises I'm not sure I can keep, you won't get them. Vowing monogamy, buying roses, professing your undying love... that's jerking off, J. I wish you could see that. You're fucking yourself and your lover over with it.  
  
Love is about what you'll do--really _do_ for that person. Not what you say. Not what the outside of that love looks like, but what's under it's surface.  
  
What's under my surface.  
  
You know, for a while there, I truly believed you understood me. That you saw right through the bullshit. Actually, you probably did. But you lost sight. I don't blame you; at your age, I was looking for the flower petals and long walks on the beach, too.   
  
I know three things. I know advertising, I know Mikey, and I know you. You know what they say in the ad business now? Love doesn't sell any more. It's a commodity--a fucking pitch--that's been used way too much for way too long.  
  
Love doesn't sell in real life either. Candle-lit picnics on the floor and violin songs... he's selling love to you. You're too naive and inexperienced to see it, but he's selling love to you like I sell sugar-coated cereal to nine-year-olds watching Bugs Bunny on Sunday mornings. Thing I don't sell is that all that fucking sugar-packed goodness will be sending them to a dentist with a cavity for each year they've been alive within a month. Thing he's not selling is that the romance doesn't last. Roses die, candles burn out, and dicks long for a new piece of ass, no matter how much they love the old piece.  
  
And really, you're no better. You haven't fallen in love with Ethan, no matter what you like to portray it as. It's a lie, to you and to him and to everyone else. Ethan could have been anyone. It was what he represents, or purports himself to represent, that attracted you. Attractions like those die fast. Maybe you'll actually fall in love with the person before that happens, but there's still that thought... love formed from a lie. At least I was honest when I met you. I didn't love you that first time we fucked, and I didn't love you for a good many fucks after it.  
  
I do care about you, though. And I miss you when you're gone. But I won't tell you that--I won't _ever_ tell you that--because I'm not going to feed fires that I can't promise I'll always keep going. I refuse to let you fall into the position of my wife. I don't believe in it, and you knew that when you met me.  
  
That and... some things are too hard to say. Even more so, there aren't words for some things.  
  
You'll never know it. How much it meant to me sometimes that you put up with my shit. I put up with yours too, but I know I'm the one that everyone has a hard time swallowing. I don't really give a fuck what they think, but I did start to care what you thought. Maybe I still do, I'm not sure.  
  
What I'm trying to say is I didn't give you the things you wanted because I _respect_ you, Justin. I don't ever want to a make a promise to you I can't keep. And I don't want to ever give you a justified reason to be disappointed in me.  
  
And as far as commitment... you missed it there. I'll never pretend to be some happy hetro content to be bound to one person out of duty and responsibility. If I only fucked you, it'd be because that's what I wanted to do, just like when I came home to you all those times. I wouldn't make any silly proclamations and I wouldn't force myself to agree to promises my dick can't keep.  
  
So no, I won't commit to whom I fuck, nor will I make you do the same. But I committed a long time ago to putting time into you, time no one else ever even got a glimmer of seeing, Justin. No one gets in but you. Of course there's Mikey, Lindsay, Debbie... but not like this. I'm still not sure if I let it happen or if you forced your way under the wire like Debbie insisted you had, but I admired you for it. It takes a tough skin and tougher heart to get close to me, and somehow you managed it. Part of me is proud of you for it; another part of me hates you for it. Things were less painful when I didn't know you.  
  
Then again, things were over all just numb when I didn't know you.  
  
You don't see me out there looking for a replacement, do you? I know I never asked for you, but it would be feasible in most people's minds for me to look for someone to fill the void now that I've gotten used to having someone around. I'm not, though. There isn't anyone. There never will be.  
  
It's you or no one.  
  
Then again, I don't really need it. I guess that's why I can leave that place empty. I don't need you, Justin.  
  
But I wanted you. I liked having you around. I liked coming home to you. I liked your shit all over the place. I liked when you'd kick me in your sleep. I liked...  
  
Yeah, I liked it all. But I don't need it.  
  
So go. Find your romance. Learn the difference between real love and love for sale, between honesty and advertising, between commitment and pretending. It's all right; we all go through it. Enjoy your chocolate and poems and sunsets. And when you get tired of it, or he fucks you over, or he becomes a star and leaves you in the dust, you can lick your wounds, move out, and crash on Daphne's couch with a copy of _Chicken Soup for the Twink's Soul_.  
  
And then maybe someday you'll realize that when I said there were no locks on the doors, I meant it. Even after you've left, I still mean it.  
  
You can come back when you're ready.


End file.
